Dastardly
by SassyJ
Summary: Tim meets with an accident, to Raylan's great amusement. When Raylan experiences his own sequence of unfortunate events, how will Tim react?


"Rock breaks scissors." Raylan attempted to keep the triumph out of his voice. Tim gave him an irritable sideways glare.

"Eighth grader." He remarked snippily, and got out of the car before Raylan could think of a witty comeback.

It was a source of irritation to Tim that he gave in so very easily to Raylan Givens. Sure, Raylan was easy on the eye, had the whole laconic cowboy style down pat, and beautiful women chucked themselves at him without fail; but Tim wasn't the impressionable type. Besides, Raylan was male. Not Tim's thing at all.

Tim scowled, this was getting ridiculous. Two gates lay between them and where their fugitive allegedly was, and that was more than enough hassle without his headspace being invaded by dumb ideas about cowboy marshals with way too much magnetism and dragging a trail of disaster behind them wherever they went.

It was scorchingly hot. Whatever possessed Raylan to head out here in the middle of the day was a mystery that Tim didn't really want to get to the bottom of, _but shit_. He got to the gate and peered over it. Nothing there, twenty odd feet away stood the other gate, and a line of smallish trees either side of the deeply rutted track that led to a scruffy looking ranch house. The whole place looked ready to fall down, from the bright and shiny looking SUV half-hidden by the tumbledown buildings, the neglect was probably willful rather than poverty induced.

He yanked on the ancient, wobbly gate, it dragged in the stony dirt as he pushed and pulled it open. It was hard work because the thing was heavy, but he figured if he tried to pick it up it would probably fall apart in his hands.

Finally it was open and Raylan rolled forward, as Tim headed for the second gate. If anything it was heavier and wobblier than the first, he managed to persuade it to give him a gap to slip through. Figuring it was going to be easier to drag rather than push… the sudden pain held him stock still for thirty seconds.

One minute Tim was dragging the gate open, muttering under his breath, something that made Raylan smirk inwardly, and try a little harder to rile Tim up, the next a smallish black dog had slunk from the long dried grass and had bitten Tim deeply and sharply in the ass.

"What the f…" Tim froze for an instant, then vaulted the gate, forgetting it was partly opened, and flung himself at the passenger side of the vehicle.

He scrabbled the door open as Raylan came to his senses and yelled at Tim to get a move on. Tim's buttocks barely touched the leather before there was a shriek of pain. Which Raylan ignored in favour of backing the hell away from the property at a pace which was sending dirt and stones flying.

"OW." Tim yelped.

[][][][][][][][]

"I just know I am longing to hear the explanation for this." Art lounged in his doorway, watching them both expectantly. Tim shot a suspicious glance at Raylan, Raylan's nose crinkled up, and that's when he heard it. The snicker.

Tim's eyes definitely flashed, Givens was going down for this one. If it took him the rest of the year. "There was a dog, while I was trying to open the gate, it bit me. Raylan drove me to the hospital." He reached for his chair, and started to ease into it very, very carefully. "There are stitches." He added as an afterthought.

That was clearly the trigger. Tim watched Art's unsuccessful attempts to suppress the laughter, when a sound coming from his left had him spinning around.

"Thank you, Muttley." He growled.

Raylan was snickering, that irritating breathy snicker which just was the icing on the cake. Any second Tim expected him to helicopter up into the air then float down with that shit-eating grin. Just like Muttley. For a moment he felt kinship with Boyd Crowder, remembering Crowder's litany of complaints the night they were looking for Drew Thompson under every bush. Something about Raylan handcuffing Boyd to a tree, and leaving him there.

Tim lowered himself to his chair again, slowly, as long as he didn't put any pressure on his left cheek things would be just peachy.

It was absolutely fucking miserable.

[][][][][][][][]

It was Rachel who collected him in the morning, waiting patiently, without a hint of smirk (Tim checked), as he gingerly lowered himself into the passenger seat.

He limped into work, aware of the glances and the suppressed smiles all around him. He'd just reached his desk when he saw it; the box sitting on his chair. He stepped around his desk and stopped. Poked the box. It wasn't heavy, so Tim cautiously pried up the lid.

He glared at his partner on the other side of the wobbly-ass partion. Raylan's nose crinkled, his head bobbed, and that Muttley snicker started up again.

Tim gritted his teeth, shot Raylan his best ice-cold sniper glare, dumped the box on the floor and placed the donut-shaped cushion on the chair. Hoping and praying that there were no whoopee cushion style noises in his immediate future, he sat.

It actually relieved the pressure and for the first time since the local wore off Tim's ass didn't feel as though someone had attacked it with a cheese grater. Despite the nostril –crinkle, and the Muttley snicker, he knew exactly who had bought him the cushion, the slightly sheepish look told him. Not that it was quite letting Raylan off the hook, but… Tim decided to defer retribution.

[][][][][][][][]

Raylan swore, and ran faster. These boots were not built for running, and since under normal circumstances he would have preferred to pursue his fleet-footed fugitive with the Lincoln, he had little choice in the matter.

It was pouring with rain, the grass was slippery and wet, and Tim and Rachel were a little further behind him than he would have liked, having stopped to round up the other two conspirators in this pathetic triangle.

The fugitive picked up the pace again, and Raylan ignored the rain and blundered after him.

It was the gully that undid him, the fugitive made a flying leap, gained the other side with ease, paused for a second to flip Raylan the bird. Rage overtook caution and Raylan surged after him. He slipped on take off, and fell short, landing hard on his ass at the bottom of the ditch.

Crunch.

The pain took his breath away.

[][][][][][][][]

Raylan lay facedown on the sunlounger that Winona had pushed under the kitchen window on his back deck. The pain meds had his brain swimming in ether, and there was one comfortable position. Facedown.

His ass was mostly agony, there were stitches. Lots and lots of stitches. Raylan buried his face in the pillow, stitches, and big dressings on his ass, which looked like a patchwork quilt (the view courtesy of Winona and two strategically placed mirror). Raylan was grateful for the meds even if they did make him loopy.

Footsteps. He kept his eyes shut. Once Art had actually determined that he was not seriously hurt, just laid up for a few weeks, the jokes about his problems being behind him had been coming thick and fast. Most of the rest of the office seemed to be laughing at him too.

He spent a few seconds feeling thoroughly pathetic.

The footsteps came right up to the lounger, there was a rustle, something was put down next to him, and the footsteps retreated a little.

Silence.

Raylan shifted a little. Patience was not his strong suit, so the chances of waiting out his visitor by pretending to be asleep were fairly slim. He cracked an eyelid, just a little, peeking out through his lashes.

A box. And beyond the box a pair of khaki clad knees, and heavy duty boots that he recognized.

He eased his weight slightly to one side.

"I once waited in a ditch, in a village outside Khandahar, for three days." A voice said, "you can't wait five minutes for the elevator."

Raylan reluctantly opened his eyes. "Tim."

The grin was of the shit-eating variety, but mixed with a certain level of sympathy, and so far Tim was avoiding the ass jokes, so Raylan was prepared to cut him a little slack.

"Got you a present."

Raylan had been ignoring the box, but now he turned his attention to it. Cautiously reached for a corner of the lid, "Does it bite?"

Tim's eyes narrowed a little, and positively twinkled, his grin widened. "You can safely _ass_-ume not."

Raylan lifted the lid, and reached inside. The donut cushion was soft and squishy under his hand.

Tim eased down in his seat at Raylan's rueful glance. "Yeah, I get it." Raylan said.

Tim just lifted his beer in a mocking little salute.


End file.
